


Charon

by PureAU



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (like he doesn't always), Alternate Universe - Supernatural Is Known, Alternate Universe - midieval, Claiming, Derek Has Issues, F/M, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mating, Scenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:46:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2481845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PureAU/pseuds/PureAU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wasn't sure where the tumbling started and the mumbling stopped, where the words ended or just slurred together or when his voice rose a few octaves. He didn't try to stop himself from yelling or oscillating against the firm oak.</p><p>He spoke until dawn, until he was numb all over, until he sobered, then he sat.</p><p>“Derek please.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charon

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing a Tumblr post about werewolves I just couldn't help my itching fingers. The drive to write was strong with this one.  
> On that note I also may have gotten a bit out of hand.  
> But, who's keeping track of how often /that/ happens? 
> 
> Warning: Canon ages are kept true to Teen Wolf. Meaning, Derek = not under eighteen; Stiles = under eighteen. If that don't float your boat turn back before I have captured your interest. 
> 
> ALSO, bombard [haqbomb](http://haqbomb.tumblr.com/) for their amazing artwork. Honestly one of the best artists I have had the pleasure of asking to use their work. Just phenomenal. Go now. Before you forget.

_But there'll be coins on my eyes_

_There'll be coins on my eyes_

_To pay Charon_

_Before I let you near my son_

 

Nights his gaze seldom wavered from the moon petrified him.

 

“The hearth should burn for a few hours yet,” a high whine of acknowledgement left him resigned; “Mikołaj, please come in.”

 

Another beloved would be lost to him.

 

 “Stiles,” ire simmered in the air, “he called me Stiles. That’s what I want to be called.”

 

 Linden beckoned young flesh into dank, wiry clutches.

 

 “Your name keeps your humanity.”

 

 “That is my name.”

 

The grate burned strong until the dead hour.

“I’m going to the cottage.”

 

Lies.

 

“You’ll be able to handle all those milk drinkers, won’t you? That’s what Crier said to the bellman at least, that you handle all the big bads. We all know I catch the real criminals.”

 

Slander.

 

“Stiles, her name is Lydia,” a curt yeah, yeah cut the air. The heavy oak door rattled distantly.

 

 Jan sat silently. No moon held his son’s gaze. No wind carrying scented conifers whispered his name. No fire crackled sick laughs.

      

Stiles followed the chatter of the groves beyond the pasture. Spriggans danced behind trees, watching carefully, guarding. Nymphs glided wistfully in games of tag. Stiles itched to sore and dodge with them, protect with them, watch the forest _with him._

“You lis’nin’?” the fluty piping of a songbird split the silence just as the forest bathed in radiant glows answered his inquiry. Fowls pirouetted in the air, their wings a-whirr like ripples of silk. A salvo of trilling and warbling detonated to far corners as the forest came alive with bards’ bellows. Stiles took their cadence as an affirmation; his babbling beginning beneath the sole great oak.

“Dad is doing well, kicking ass and taking names, that kind of thing. He thinks I’m running out here to be with you, I mean I am, just not in the sense he suspects. I honestly believe he’d be fine with this kind of meet and greet,“ Stiles snorts, his eyes rolling back far enough to hurt a bit.

“Anyway, Lydia is becoming quite an opponent in the political scheme of things. You should see her and that old man run ‘em ramped with all the _yelling._ Scott is completely smitten with Kira, you would love to glare at the constant puppy dog eyes.Erica and Boyd will be blessed with pups come spring. Isaac…” Stiles rambled until his throat clicked. Continued despite the scratch and cottonmouth that followed. Sat still, ignoring the chill that seeped into his thin pants. _Just in case_. And when there were no more words to be shared with the Elves and Bereginyas he laid back against the stump.

“I miss you,” there was no answering huff of breath, no cold snout pressing against his cheek, no _anything_ ; “Do you know how much I miss you? A lot. I'm a mess of someone who misses another person, okay? And you know what that means? It means that my emotional state is now literally a threat to my life. Okay, I need to see your stupid werewolf ass. Someone needs to drag you to me, like, today. Like, someone needs to go one a hunting expedition _right now_!”

He considered growling - feral rumbles that would wrack his core and explode into shrill howls - but, settled for rapid pants between splayed fingers.

_“Assist us, O Lord our God;”_

    

Jan kept records. Small, hardly legible notes of moon cycles. When Stiles’ gaze fell more frequently on its demanding presence, when he ignored it existed. He contemplated handing the findings into Deaton, to cure his son of this plague. It passed; Stiles tore the journal to shreds once he discovered its existence. The harvest came, favorable for the human’s under the forests protection. Festivals were celebrated; a certain pithy man remained well-hidden. Stiles spent more time at ‘the cottage’ than at his own home, Jan fought hard to keep wandering guards from the woodland. He cursed not seeking help before the escalation.

 

Stiles stopped coming home _period_.

 

Jan always left the door unlatched.

 

“Alright, where to start? Dad started keeping a psyche evaluation based on looking you. He doesn't know I am looking for you, he thinks I’m gaga for the moon. Maybe he’s convinced I’m a lunatic. You would have hit me for that.

 

“Scott and Kira are set to wed after the harvest. I’m naturally his best man. A werecoyote called Malia is amidst us now. I think you and her would get along, seeing as the sarcasm matches to boot. The whole village adores her. Scott took in a cub, Liam…” once again he rambled, chattering softly to passing foxes and brushing rabbits daring enough to engage him.  

 

Countless hours passed; a crack too harsh to be a friendly woodland creature sounded clearly behind him. Stiles sat rod still, “I brought you a cloak, Mikołaj.”

 

“Dad?” Jan hummed, draping the cloth over Stiles’ bare shoulders. His tunics needed to be swapped for heavy robes, he just hadn't had the time; “What are you doing here?”

 

“I thought I could stop you, from talking to that wolf I mean. I hadn't realized,” Stiles hushed him with a look, a hand came to rest on his father’s shoulder.

 

“That _wolf_ was gone ages ago. I’m not even sure… I read… There is a myth that if someone who truly loved and trusted the werewolf called it by name that it would turn back to human. After the fire… He hasn't been human in a long time, dad,” Jan squeaked an oh coiling his arm around Stiles’ middle and pulling him close. He nestled into his father’s warmth.

 

Breath caught in his throat; the pressure in his chest caused his eyes to water, “Dad accepts us. He understands what it’s like to have someone ripped from you before you’re ready. He accepts us.”

 

Jan placed a kiss on Stiles’ temple, “I accept you."

 

Stiles watched the moon from the stoop that night.

    

Jan began sitting with Stiles. He kept a tally, but at his son's request. The moon became an omnipresent individual to the paterfamilias. His son’s warmth toward the object bringing him serenity in the gelid winter dark.

 

“Why do you stargaze, Stiles?”

 

He stuttered, the sudden incorrect assumption stupefying him into breathless titters, “I’m not stargazing. I’m watching for him. I,” he trailed, collecting his thoughts with even breaths. Jan laid a hand over his nape, “I can feel it, him in the woods being all wolfy. Every prey he catches and doesn't leave at the oak, every clump of fur snagged on barbs, they are omens that tell me he is still there. _Dammit_ , he is _there_. And I _will_ bring him back. And he will be an uncle to Celek and Lucjan. He will be a Godfather to any of the children born to Scott. He will mentor Liam and Malia in skil-” his voice broke before he could continue. He puled before he could school his sentiment into composure.

 

Jan swiped his thumb through the baby hairs near Stiles’ ivory skin, “He’ll be back I’m sure of it. He needs time.” Stiles mumbled incoherently. He’d given him time.

 

Guards who diverged from the path often traveled no longer questioned finding their captains son deep within the thicket, speaking softly to animals and myths. Stiles hardly spared them a second glance. Shiedlar Parrish found himself sitting in with Stiles more often than not off his shift. Jan heeded warning of his sons spite; his son requested Parrish’s company. If he felt beryl eyes bore into him in the presence of the other man he decided to ignore it.

 

“It’s getting dark out, Little Fox,” Parrish noted, not that he believed it would deter Stiles from sitting beneath the canopy all night.

 

“Yesterday it was Little Red,” Stiles retorted, leaning into Parrish’s shoulder. Parrish shifted to accommodate the new weight, the contented sigh from beside him relaxing his tense shoulders.

 

“You’re vulpine. Are we sure you’re not a kitsune?” Parrish poked Stiles side, below the ribs where Stiles would choke from laughter. He pushed off Parrish with a growl, caught his wrist in a fluid motion, pinned him onto cold grass and fallen leaves.  Their mouths hovered close, momentarily, before no space kept parted lips from one another at all. Scurrying feet drew Stiles away from the pliant body beneath him, from the unnatural heat of a hell hound, the draw of wet skin and itching teeth.

 

A wolf bolted toward the glade.

    

Stiles’ face felt too hot, his body too cold. He could hardly stand; the tremors in his legs causing him to sway to and fro; a daisy to the warming wind. He used the grand oak as support. Allowed her to lend him strength through the shoulder ever connected to her trunk. Sickly patches of umber spotted snow crunched under half laced boots. Stiles bent to drink it, contemplated the consequences, stood pole-straight, swayed again. His pants became soaked with freezing liquid. When did he sit down?

 

“Ya win _wolf_ ya win. Did’ja hear that? I can’t… I can’t be this, but I am this. I don't want to be whatever this is

 

Why’d’ya run? I could’ve help, woulda helped, you just had to ask. Yah said it yourself I’m not like _her_ I’m better than _her_ more human than _her_. If that was true what’re’ya runnin’ for?” Stiles wasn't sure where the tumbling started and the mumbling stopped, where the words ended or just slurred together or when his voice rose a few octaves. He didn’t try to stop himself from yelling or oscillating against the firm oak. His one constant; “I love you oak,” warbling overtook bellowing waves of rage spurred ranting, “I love him, Oak.” He siphoned heavy air into his lungs, clucked his tongue against the phlegm coated pallet at the roof of his pallet, “Okay, Dad worries as usual. For my health this time around. I… I don’t-

 

Parrish left… at the… t-the spring equinox.  Aurek is healthy - despite the harsh winter. Scott makes puppy eyes all the more offen. Isaac and Allison returned aft’r the planting... he, Isaac, was so distraught t’ see ya gone. Liam ‘nd Malia…”

 

He spoke until dawn, until he was numb all over, until he sobered, then he sat. Jan brought bread at supper, water before nightfall. A cloak when the moon rose high. Tremors like earthquakes tormented his spine notwithstanding the shawl over his front.

 

He lay with dark lashes brushing high cheekbones, his breaths shallow and pained. High Noon forced sunlit honey-brown eyes from behind their lidded covering. Torrid puffs of breaths harassed him into gazing at a grime covered wolf, “God is dead and this is obviously my punishment for alcoholism just before his fall.” The wolf sat back on stained haunches, laughing at him, “If you’re going to eat me, do it now before I remember I have legs.” And didn’t that seem to offend the wolf if the dangerous growl was anything to go by.

 

Except for he knew that growl, became intimately familiar with it at times, “Derek,” the name cracked in his throat, “Derek _please_.” Like a fairy tale the fur faded, the snout scrunched, the body went from a quadruped to biped, Derek became Derek. Not a canine version lost forever to the human world. The transition did not hold beauty - the snapping bones and breaking flesh were far from alluring - but the shift in its promise held a candle to its merit. "Someone who truly loved and trusted the werewolf called it by name that wolf would turn back to human."

 

“You smell like him,” Derek growled, voice raspy from disuse, snuffling the junction of neck and shoulder.

 

“Fix it,” Stiles pleaded. Derek dragged the heavy scarlet cloak from his body to the moist ground, lifted Stiles easily onto its fleece underbelly. Stiles hooked his knee possessively over Derek’s cut hips. Raked his hand down abs gained from years of running ramped in the woodland. Derek grabbed both of Stiles’ knees, forced them to his sharp jawline, nipped both sides of his thin pants. He trailed the tip of his nose from popliteal to ass, scenting. When he found no signs of phoenix on the underside of _his_ mate, he rumbled appreciatively.

 

Derek pressed his nose between seams of leggings, pushed to breath in the scent he missed so well, “How old are you now, Stiles?”

 

Stiles gasped softly at the gentle vibrations of Derek’s voice. The implications surged arousal through his veins, “Seventeen, I’m seventeen.” Of age, ripe, able to breed. Derek snapped the flimsy sewing job with his teeth. He circled plump lips with thick fingers, groaning when the receptive mouth suckled enthusiastically. An unskilled tongue skirted between the webs, flattened against the the underside. Sharp teeth nibbled the soft flesh at the tip, “ _Fuck_ , Stiles.”

 

“Fuck, yeah, isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing? _Fucking, claiming_.” Derek’s fingers rested at his chin, Stiles neck tilted invitingly back. The feral growl that vibrated both bodies forced Stiles’ cock to drizzle clear liquid. Derek flattened his tongue against the pool.

 

"Quiet."

 

"Or what? I haven't been quiet since I was twelve,"  Derek's tongue plunged down his throat. His clawed hand grasped the tender flesh of his neck, pinching hard enough to disable Stiles' vocal chords. He removed his tongue, licking his top lip to the curve of his nose. Stiles choked out a whimper. Derek leered down at his prey, his catch, his mate. He moved tortuously down his body, biting roughly at sensitive nipples, rubbing his cheeks against pectorals down to his navel, licking down the thick patch of hair to Stiles' angry cock.

 

He ignored the red flesh; scratched dark, painted stubble into warm groins, traced patterns over his taint, "Derek, ohgod, please," Derek shushed him ghosting his thumb over Stiles' dusty hole. Stiles huffed a moan, arched submissively, "fu-uhck me," Stiles bitched. Derek pulled back ivory cheeks exposing Stiles' pucker. His scorching tongue skirted playfully around clenching muscles. He delved in; parted the sea and led explosions behind Stiles' eyelids. The boy shouted his pleasure; whined lifting shapely hips invitingly. Derek pushed him back to the fleece.

 

"On your knees," the dazed hum had Derek snarling. "Knees, now." Stiles scrambled to comply - curved his back to present - chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Derek settled behind him. His girth shielded prying eyes from his Stiles. Perfectly shaped canines bit into supple flesh of his ass, two clawed fingers burrowed into his tight heat. Derek rose high enough to drape himself over Stiles' back. He nibbled at his neck

 

A crook of his fingers stopped Stiles' breathing. Everything stilled; the cool grass in his fingers snapped with clenching hands and the spring air turned summer hot. Stiles released a high moan when they curved again, harsher, deliberate. Noon light brightened to harsh yellow - he keened. The wonderful pleasure vanished replaced by a light breeze, the only sign he had been flipped again. Stiles ran the fingers of one hand through the coarse hair of Derek’s head. He dropped the other hand to the lycan’s neglected dick, reveled at the length and width. Derek’s huffs were wolf like, but his face was serene - pleasure flushing his cheeks. Stiles grin contrasted with his wicked hand.

 

Derek plastered himself to Stiles nibbled his pink lips to chapped carmine; distracted him from his mounting. Stiles shouted at the breach, whimpered at the tongue searching his mouth, gasped at the final blow before two bodies molded together inseparably. Derek snarled at the vice surrounding his dick. High wails mixed with the slap of skin lilted on gales of wind. Derek lifted a thin leg to his shoulder bending Stiles in two.

 

Stiles whimpered fuck me and fuckmefuckme; a mantra only Derek could hear. Their isolation providing steam for all testimonies of want and lust. Derek allowed sweet nothings to loll off his thick tongue in a soft tenor. Stiles laughed, breathy and pure, at the illicit confessions that equated to much more than he could ever ask for.

 

Derek slowed to a rolling motion. His hands slid down Stiles side easing him over to a more suitable position. His thrusts became shallow and calculated. “The fuck is that?” Stiles whined. A growing ball brought him closure to Derek than he ever thought possible and he moaned without consent. Derek growled pressing into Stiles’ prostate with no explanation outside of cavespeak, “Oh _fuck_. Is that a-”

 

Derek bucked up. Stiles gave a soft hiss.

 

“A knot?”

 

A splash of warm liquid followed by several hundred more splashes of warm liquid pushed him over the edge. A pyrotechnic display of epic proportion blinded him. His vow of silence took off as no noise followed the gape of his mouth. Derek snapped and barked. Blankets upon blankets of comfort fogged their minds. Spooning lax and bodies sated, both playing with the others fingertips. Derek softly pierced the flesh of his human’s neck - not enough to turn, but enough to claim for a lifetime. Stiles idly rubbed cum into the others skin, marking by scent that would mingle, mix beyond separation.

 

Derek petted Stiles’ overgrown tuft of hair, pulled strands of sun kissed brown contrasting with chocolate, “We have a lot of catching up to do.” Stiles grinned wickedly, settling against the pressure of Derek’s knot. And a lot of time, he wished to point out, but settled on a sigh.

 

“You’re going to love Celek; she is so much her mother. And Lucjan, he is a smart kid who loves reading, but developed that weird lurk his father learned from a certain alpha. Oh! And Aurek…”

 

He maundered until his jaw hurt. Ambled on like a man too drunk on life to consider the consequences.

 

And he never _stopped_.


End file.
